Going Through the Motions
by element90
Summary: Eventually, it happens. But is it the end?


This is different for me..so little dialogue. Another one-shot, I'm still trying to get into multi-chapter mode. So, I spent about twenty minutes on the peanut butter fic and that's the one people really liked. That says something. I think. I'm glad people enjoyed it. But, no, I wasn't looking at jars of peanut butter. I don't even really like the stuff.

Oh, thanks to the couple of people that commented on length. I used your words in my own defense.

Well, thanks everyone! Hope you all enjoy.

Going Through the Motions

One year.

A traditionalist would give her something of paper. Or, choosing contemporaneously, a clock.

He sighs as he stares in the bathroom mirror while buttoning his shirt. Fortunately, since the decision seems not only difficult but pointless as well, they are not married. But they _are_ a couple. And he needed a gift, a small token to mark the occasion.

But why? Because he wanted to. He frowns at his reflection. Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps, his motivation was less sincere and more perfunctory than anything else.

So, to avoid looking like a fool by presenting her with something resembling that which currently rests upon her beside table, he chose paper. A card with a short message scrawled inside. He has to give his girlfriend something on their first anniversary, right? Even if it is just a _dating_-relationship-first-anniversary.

After checking his hair one last time, he switches off the light as he slowly makes his way out the door.

One year.

It should be commemorated in some fashion. It must be noted in some way or another. Surely.

She sighs as she stares out her bedroom window while slipping on her shoes. Yes, some kind of event has to occur on the first-year anniversary. Twelve months of loving someone is meaningful, and therefore, deserves an equally as meaningful celebration.

But why? Because she wants it to. She frowns at the night sky. Maybe. Maybe not. Just maybe, her driving force has less to do with wanting and more to do with expectation than anything else.

However, to appear as if she is excitedly anticipating the momentous milestone, she chooses to participate in the timeless ritual. So, she dresses in her most flattering best. She has to go out with her boyfriend on their first anniversary, right? Even if it is just a _dating_-relationship-first-anniversary.

After adding the appropriate accessories to complete her outfit, she silently awaits his arrival to her front door.

_One year_.

He steps onto the porch and gently taps the wood with his knuckles. Within a minute's time, she appears.

"Hi, Phil."

"You look beautiful, Keely."

He says it quickly, and she realizes the comment came without him having actually looked at her, absorbed her. He said it automatically. His eyes never traveled down the length of her body, they never lingered on her face, and they never moved to gaze at her lips until the kiss. They were dark, but not filled with that craving, that desire, that spark. They were almost empty.

"Thank you."

Her reply is softly spoken but flat. Her tone doesn't give him that sensation, that ghostly brush at the back of his neck or that fluttery stir in his chest. It is distant, impersonal, and ordinary.

"These are for you."

He holds out the bouquet of red roses. One dozen red roses for one year. She takes them in her hand, the wrapping on the stems crinkles loudly in the quiet night. Red roses. What girl doesn't enjoy receiving a dozen red roses from her boyfriend? She does, but she wonders how different she would have felt if he had given her a single hand-picked white daisy. Like he has done before.

"And this."

She takes the lilac-colored envelope he offers to her, just going through the motions again.

"You can read it now...or later...it doesn't matter."

His indifference strikes her in an odd way. Logically, she knows there is not any hidden meaning behind his words, but they still hurt.

As she opens the envelope, her memory recalls the first card he had given her as her boyfriend. It wasn't her birthday or any holiday or special day at all. It was a Tuesday like any other Tuesday. They had been officially together for an insignificant number of days. Nothing special about eleven days. But he had given her a card one morning at school. He had secretly slipped it into her locker. 'I'm thinking of you' it had said in his own handwriting, 'always.'

A simple blank card with his heartfelt sentiment, repeated randomly throughout the next few months, and it meant the world to her. This card in her hand is just a copy from an original, just one of a million mass-produced copies. With a written 'Love, Phil' and nothing more. This card doesn't even begin to compare.

Still, she kisses his cheek.

Barely. Her touch is a mere breath against his skin. Her lips are dry, and her eyes are dull. He watches as she unenthusiastically ducks back through the door to set her gifts inside. The card will remain on the small table near the door until she returns home tonight, but the flowers will be ushered into the kitchen and placed in a glass vase as soon as they leave. She turns back to him. Her face is blank.

They are just going through the motions.

"Ready to go?"

"Yeah."

They link arms, effortlessly. The gesture is a habit, a habit that formed from one single spontaneous gesture undertaken long ago. It meant something that day. They linked arms and their eyes shone with happiness, an airy joy beamed on their faces. But now, a sweet affectionate display has been reduced to a mechanical physical movement. Nothing more.

"No stars out tonight."

As they slowly walk to their destination, she observes the absence of light overhead.

"They're out there. We just can't see them through the clouds."

A restaurant comes into view, an elegant place of charm and romance. They are promptly seated in a quiet, intimate corner. The table is small; they sit close together. He studies the menu without much interest while she sips her water.

The waiter comes, they place their requests, and then they are left alone.

He listens to the gentle instrumental music, the harp and the flute. The song is beautiful. He glances at her. It compliments her. The notes, the harmony, matches her perfectly. He smiles, and, naturally, she meets his gaze.

"Nice place."

His whisper is not quite as low and warm as she knows it to be. That bothers her like it has continuously bothered her since the unspecified moment the shift in their relationship occurred a few months ago. However, despite the heaviness creeping into her heart, as naturally as her eyes met his, she smiles and nods her head.

But the depth is not there. He drops his gaze to the tablecloth. Their love ran deep, deeper than he had ever imagined it could, but now, shallow waters have replaced that depth. A bitter laugh echoes in his mind. That kind of depth they had, back in a time he can't pinpoint, it was nearly impenetrable and almost unbelievable. It ran so deep. Now, he can just barely rake his fingers through it.

And the gentle instrumental music becomes background noise. Nothing more.

"It's...wonderful."

He makes brief eye contact with her before setting his distant gaze upon the musicians. She quietly sighs and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She settles her own gaze on the single candlestick upon the table.

Like a carefree young love, it burns so bright and so fast. Burning into nonexistence. Burning headlong, blindly into nonexistence. She frowns. From the moment the wick was set aflame, the wax began to melt away. The soft, heated wax is now dripping slowly into a hardened puddle.

The passion is extinguished, the senses are dulled. She glances up at him through her lashes. His face is bathed in the yellow glow but void of emotion.

She wishes for just one of his lopsided grins, one of his dazzling smiles, one tiny sign that the boy she loves is here with her. She wishes for one tiny sign, a proof, that he still loves her today like he so desperately and eagerly loved her when they first uttered those shy confessions, and then later, those conviction-filled three little words, their promises to each other, their commitment.

But the sign doesn't come. She looks back to the candle, the passion and senses fading with each passing second, each drip of the wax, and her heart sinks.

He watches the candle now too, and he mentally sighs. One drawback. There is one drawback to dating your best friend, to falling in love with your best friend. After the fall, like the melting of the wax, seemingly, there is nothing left. When the burning is exhausted, there is nothing left to ignite, and there isn't any flame left to flicker, only a slight chill remains.

The rest of the dinner is silent. They do not speak but a few unemotional words. Their eyes meet and their fingertips touch, naturally so, but they are far apart from each other. They are just going through the motions.

"Should we go now?"

"Ok..."

And the chill inside, is uncontested by that of the cold, unexpected rain outside.

A few other couples join them along the sidewalk under the awning. Some men graciously and chivalrously venture into the heavy shower to pull their cars to the curb. Others politely hang their jackets overhead to keep their dates dry.

But Phil doesn't take the gentlemanly route.

She hugs herself and pulls her coat more tightly around her frame to ward off the cool, damp night as she watches the other couples depart. He holds out his hand.

Turning to him, not catching his movement with her eyes but with her heart, she raises her eyebrow, though she knows what he is asking, what he is expecting. Her hand slips into his, easily. And this time, their contact instills a very familiar feeling within her.

He feels it too.

"Come on, Keel."

His words are light and they graze against a part of her that hasn't been touched in some time. Her laughter, genuine and true is awakened. At the sound of it, the sign she was hoping for earlier reappears and her heart sings a very familiar song.

With a lopsided grin, he leads her into the rain. It's cold, but she doesn't feel it. It runs in rivulets through her hair and down her face, but she doesn't care. It drenches her coat and shoes and splatters onto her bare legs, but she is completely unaware.

The only thing she sees is him, the only thing she cares for is him, the only thing she feels is the weakness he causes. He knows her. He knows her so well, so well that in the beginning it was almost frightening, and lately it has been almost irritating, but now...

They dance. Without music. They never need the music. They create their own. And the chill disappears.

He knows her so well, he knows so well what she wants...dancing in the rain with the boy she loves...not needing any grand gestures...not caring to be soaked to the skin... He knows she could not be more grateful. This is all she ever really wanted from him.

The raindrops cling to his thick lashes, drip from his chin, and seep through his shirt, but he is focused solely on the girl in his arms, the girl that has become a part of him, the most important part. He pulls her close, gently swaying their bodies.

"Happy anniversary, Keely."

His whisper is low and warm, more so than she remembered.

"I'm thinking of you."

Her body becomes still as a statue in his embrace. The sound of the rain surrounds them as she gazes into his dark eyes, once more filled with the craving, the spark. This time, they absorb every inch of her face. They absorb her soul. She smiles softly. This is what she remembers. This is the boy who loved her with such wild abandonment before.

"Always," he whispers in a breath as his gaze moves to rest upon her lips.

And they kiss..in the rain as a light fog settles into the street..as a few cars drive by and a few pedestrians traverse the wet pavement.

As the world around them passes by...going through the motions...

They don't.


End file.
